


with piranha teeth i've been dreaming of you

by atomicblondie



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, how sansa's storyline was hinted to be going but didnt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-14 16:34:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20195320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicblondie/pseuds/atomicblondie
Summary: Petyr was hardly trustworthy, she knew that, anyone with a brain surely knew that, and yet. His words twisted and turned in her thoughts.'There's no justice in this world. Not unless we make it. You loved your family. Avenge them.'And then he'd kissed her forehead, and left the choice to her.-----If Sansa's story went as hinted, with manipulation.





	with piranha teeth i've been dreaming of you

Sansa sat, hands in her lap, as she waited for everyone else in the room to be served their meal. Ramsay, Roose and herself had been served first and the men had begun tucking in immediately, and if it wouldn't anger them both, she'd have sneered at their lack of manners. It was probably just because this is where she ate as a child, but the way Ramsay ate reminded him of Arya and how she would shovel the food in, using her hands when there was cutlery in her reach. A smile graced her lips despite the fact that it wasn't her little sister sitting there. 

Petyr had left that morning and missing him was something she never expected. No, it wasn't missing _him_, it was missing a semblance of safety. Sansa could have laughed, that the man that pushed her aunt out the moondoor, that toyed with the Lannisters and had left her in this gods forsaken place, could hold a sense of normality for her. 

Petyr was hardly trustworthy, she knew that, anyone with a brain surely knew that, _and yet_. His words twisted and turned in her thoughts. 

_There's no justice in this world. Not unless we make it. You loved your family. Avenge them._

And then he'd kissed her forehead, and left the choice to her. 

And she knew. Sansa _knew _that he was using her, that he'd brought up her family to make her feel the urge to fight back about those that had hurt them. She hated that it was working, but she supposed there was a reason that Petyr Baelish had reached the position he had, when he didn't have the background of the rest of the highborn familes. 

Avenge them, he'd told her and she wanted to. She so desperately wanted to she'd wept over it the night before, when Petyr had told her he was leaving for the Vale. She was even shameless enough to do it in his presence. Once again he'd taken her head in his hands, steadying her, and brushed his thumb over the red hair at her temple. 

"_Sansa_," He had murmured, as he usually did. "Breathe. You're strong, stronger than you think." Petyr had kissed her, like that time in the snow, soft and gentle and salty from her tears. Kissing Petyr wasn't on her list of wishes but Sansa had learned to appreciate that at least there was no brutality to it, no menace. "You know what you need to do." 

Sansa nodded her understanding and attempted to sniffle herself back to poise. He wiped her tears and gave a smile, she guessed it verged on sympathy, but it was impossible to read the true thoughts that ran through his mind. Part of her wondered if that kiss was meant as an instruction, her thoughts could only drift back to what Cersei had told her, or what Shae had told her, and how she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Sansa fought the urge to sigh into her meal, and instead turned her attention to her betrothed. “I don’t recognise your hounds. Did you bring them from the Dreadfort?” 

Ramsay looked up from his meal and smiled, it did not look friendly. “Of course.”

“Did you train them yourself?” She already knew the answer, her handmaiden had told her in her first week of arrival. 

“Yes, they are completely and utterly under my control. I am their master.”

“That is impressive.” She smiled, “I’ve met so many southron men that would have servants do it for them, but I find that so...” she waved her hand slightly above the table, as if he’d understand from that alone. “Passive.”

Ramsay’s eyes practically lit up at her words, and Sansa felt relieved that she’d chosen the right ones. She’d drawn from experience with Joffrey, doing so little and acting so proud. Plus, anyone could see that Ramsay was eager to control things in his presence. He wiped his mouth and grinned, “Lady Sansa, I’m surprised you understand.” 

She made a mental note: _he feels ostracised_. 

“I’ll take you to see them properly tomorrow, if you’d like.” He offered, his shoulders clearly pushed back. Proud? She tried to put on her best Littlefinger glasses, trying to guess what he would read from it. 

“I would like that.” With Joffrey she’d have reached for his hand, but she wasn’t certain how the Bolton boy would react to something so bold. It was something to build up to. 

“I finished sewing a new outfit today,” Walda started, beginning to babble on to Roose about how she’d muddled up some stitches. Ramsay tolled his eyes, and Sansa forced herself to let out a tiny giggle. 

She liked Walda, and felt awfully guilty for laughing at her expense despite it going unnoticed by Walda herself. 

Ramsay on the other hand looked pleased, a self satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Sansa fought down a smirk of her own, it was far to early to feel like she had him pliable. 

The next morning when Sansa went to break her fast, Ramsay was the last to arrive and she used that time to speak with Walda, making sure to ask her about the error she’d made, to reassure the woman that she had in fact been listening. 

“They could be worse Lady Sansa, but the baby clothes are so small and I can’t be that delicate.” 

If Ramsay were here he’d likely make a dig about her weight, that her fingers weren’t dainty enough for delicate stitching and she should give up. Sansa wouldn’t say something like that, her cutting remarks only came when prompted, or if she was in a foul mood and it felt as if her world was crashing down around her. She’d grown out of that though, it had been a youthful habit but she’d learned that it was better to keep your mouth shut when in the den of lions. 

"Of course you can, I can help you." She smiled reassuringly, and if she was still young and proud, she'd have pointed out to Walda that her own stitches were excellent. 

Ramsay walked in with a crack of the wood slamming shut behind him. Sansa hadn't known him long, but she wondered if he pushed the doors that hard to make the room take notice. She stood at his entrance, hands curtly held in front of her, a show of respect even though she didn't truly hold any. He loved it. She could tell from that pursed smile that he _loved _the show of it. He was a bastard but he didn't have the benefits of a King for a father and a lie spun throughout the kingdom. No highborn had ever stood for him before, Sansa was certain. 

Lady Sansa," he held out his hand to her and she slipped hers into his, trying to seem enamoured when he brought her fingers to his lips. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then faked shyness and averted her eyes. 

"Did you sleep well?" She then asked, as if it were all she could manage. 

"Very well," He wore a knowing smirk, but she knew too. He'd been with the kennelmaster's daughter, her handmaiden had told her of that too. Gods, she couldn't trust a single person in this place, they were so quick to open their mouths. "And yourself?"

"Yes,” she nodded, lowering herself to sit when he indicated towards the chair and sat beside her. “It’s really quite something to be sleeping in my own room again.” She’d thought that would be an okay thing to say, but she recognised immediately after the words had come out that it could be interpreted as claim. And yes. Winterfell belonged to her, no matter who occupied it, Winterfell would always be a Stark’s place. 

Ramsay didn’t comment on it, so she didn’t either. Though, she had to admit to being fooled that he hadn’t caught the blunder. 

“I can imagine. When we wed, would you like that to be  _our_ room?” He asked, a hint of venom in the words. 

“That’s up to you, my lord.” She tried to placate, but there was an internal panic rising in her chest. She didn’t want her marital bed to be inside any room of Winterfell. She didn’t want to lay with a Bolton when memories of family would flood her. 

“We’ll see.” Ramsay said, turning his attention from her and eyeing his father and Walda. There was something in his look, a flash of contempt where he’d forgotten to hide his true self. 

Roose Bolton was telling Walda about a meeting he had that day with his advisors. 

“That’s the first I’ve heard of it.” Ramsay commented bitterly, cocking his head at his father in challenged question. 

“That’s because you weren’t invited.” Roose brushed off his son and continued to eat his breakfast. 

Sansa could see the starts of an argument in Ramsay’s clenching fist. It hadn’t felt right the day prior, but she reached out and put her hand over his. 

“Is the offer to see your hounds still open?” She asked, commanding his attention. He looked frustrated but she gave him a pleading look to try and settle him. “I’d like to, if you’re willing.”

He looked from Sansa to Roose, then back to her. “Yes, yes of course.” 

She squeezed his hand softly and released him, and she’d never seen him look quite so confused, as if she was beneath him and had the gall to reach above her station. 

He turned his attention away and Sansa allowed herself the slow release of breath, knowing she’d gotten away with something but likely wouldn’t again. 

——

Two hours after eating Ramsay had come to find her, seated in the parlour sewing an outfit for Walda’s child. 

“I don’t know why you bother, Lady Sansa.” He’s said as she packed her work away. 

“The child deserves  _something_ made with skill.” 

He smirked, and she took it as a win. 

The looks she received as they walked to the kennels were mixed, pity and fear and goodbyes. This was dangerous,  of course it was dangerous, but Sansa knew well enough by now that she was more use to anyone alive. Hurt was a different matter, but like Petyr said, she had to be strong. 

Myranda came forth from the kennels when she saw Ramsay approaching, but her smile fell as soon as she saw Sansa beside him. 

“Leave us.” Ramsay commanded, paying little attention. 

“But-“ the brunette immediately protested, only to be met with Ramsay’s cold stare. 

“I _said_ leave us.” 

Pouting was unbecoming of an adult and a woman, but Myranda clearly never had someone like Old Nan to teach her that. 

His eyes followed the brunette as she left, closer to a glare than anything appreciative like she might have expected. Sansa supposed that none of his relationships were on good terms, everyone was irritating to a point. Myranda was clingy, that was her fault in his eyes. 

He opened the door and pretending to be ever the gentleman, held it for her and indicated for her to go first. 

“Thank you,” she smiled, walking by him closer than she would have liked. 

“Lady Sansa,” he gave that wide smile, the one that held all his evil intentions, and the door shut behind them with an ominous bang. “Here are my girls.” 

She’d heard things about his dogs, the terrible things Ramsay had them do, but it wasn’t until she saw them up close that it resonated inside her. They looked strong and malicious, barking and howling and jumping at the bars as they tried to escape - to their master or to attack her, she didn’t know. 

She tried to show awe rather than fear, but it felt impossible when their sharp teeth were bared and snarling in her direction. 

Ramsay yelled out a command, “Sit!” And the dogs all followed suit. 

It wasn’t a lie when Sansa looked at him with surprise and gave an impressed smile. “They hang on your every word.” She told him, feeling brave enough to go closer to the cages now they weren’t after her. 

“Would you like to meet one?” It wasn’t a real offer, it was a taunt, he wanted to toy with her fear. 

“I’d love to.” She told him, pleasant as ever but defiant. 

With a hand on her lower back, he led her to a different cage and started unlocking the gate. The dog minced slightly at her master being close, but he raised a hand and it stopped, even when he swung the door open and looked to Sansa expectantly. 

“She’s called Grey Jeyne.” 

A hot flash of fear rushed through her, the name of her old childhood friend echoing through her. He did that on purpose. 

She stepped forward, twists of doubt wrapping around herself as she went inside the cage and Ramsay stood at the door. If he wanted her hurt, now would be the time. 

_No_ , she thought,  _I am Sansa Stark and I have slept with direwolves. I will not be scared._

Sansa looked back with a soft smile before slowly holding her hand out for the dog to sniff, and once it had, even slower, squat down to it’s level and pet it’s head gently. The dog accepted it, though didn’t look certain of her yet. Sansa doubted it had ever received such kindness in it’s life. 

“She’s lovely, you’ve done a wonderful job.” She praised him. 

Like a dog,  _good boy_ . 

Ramsay looked impressed, there was no way to misread the look on his face. It was the best she’d seen him look since her arrival. 

She gave the dog one last stroke over the long bridge of it’s snout and stood again, facing Ramsay with a smile. 

“Let me walk you back.” Ramsay offered, locking the cage behind her and holding out his arm for her to take. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not entirely sure whether this is a one off or not, i just had the idea in my head and wanted to write it. i'm not even sure theres an audience for this.


End file.
